


our love has no rhythm (this is the beginning)

by rosierey



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Angst, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Estrangement, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, Scotland, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:29:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27183161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosierey/pseuds/rosierey
Summary: It's been six years since Benji left the IMF. Alone. Now, he goes by Samuel and lives a very ordinary life in a very ordinary village. Then a certain someone from his past returns and Benji's life is turned on its head...
Relationships: Benji Dunn/Ethan Hunt
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	our love has no rhythm (this is the beginning)

PROLOGUE: SAMUEL

There is always a moment, in the early morning when he wakes, where Samuel thinks: I could just stay in bed. It had originally occurred to him on his first day waking up in this house after waking for haunting dreams and restless sleep. He had laid there and realised nothing would happen if he just… kept laying there. And yet, compelled by years on the job and that strange stray cat he saw the day before, Samuel had risen all the same and started his day.

This morning is no different. Samuel hauls himself upright, wincing as his back cracks when he stretches. He feels his age more in the colder seasons and this November hasn’t been kind, starting with an early frost. When he draws the curtains back his view is obscured with a light frost upon the glass. He runs his fingers down the pane, pads stinging with its chill. Scotland’s winters always seem to happen all of a sudden, settling overnight in a blanket of frost and fallen leaves. Green, to orange and red, to bare branches.

The shower rattles and groans to life, quickly filling the bathroom with a lovely cloud of steam. Benji shudders under the hot spray as it eases the frost on his bones. He spends far longer in there than necessary, but he’s retired he can indulge after years of rushing in the morning.

In the kitchen he tip-toes across the cold tiles to the radiator where warm socks wait. He puts them while the kettle boils and his laptop wakes. 

He has a rule. Every morning, for an hour, Samuel allows himself to check the news online. It is indulging in a habit, like coffee or cigarettes, to stave off the shakes for the rest of the day. Every time as he loads the Guardian site he per-forms a small prayer- no catastrophes, no death and destruction. For the last eight years he has been able to breath a sigh of relief when the front page appears and there’s just some nonsense about the royal family to greet him. It means he can sleep. Sleep without the dreams returning and the guilt.

He eats toast and drinks tea as he checks the web, then closes the laptop to get dressed. He doesn’t really have anywhere to go in this life of leisure, but he does have a routine.

Perth is quieter in the winter, like the chill freezes everyone over and makes everything slow down. It’s peaceful. Benji crosses the square, wrapped up in his coat and scarf to his regular café. The waitress greets him by name and sits him at his usual table. She doesn’t give him a menu; they know his order.

Sometimes old man Lancy is there, sometimes not. If his heart is up to it and he makes it to the café, he and Benji will chat about the weather and play chess. It’s not one of those days but Seanad is there to handle a delivery, so they talk- she’s an avid fan of Dan Brown and has leant Samuel his books just to have someone to gossip with about them. Samuel isn’t really a fan, but he likes the way she talks and how enthusiastic she is, so he reads on.

After the tea, as more people filter in from the chilly outdoors and the noise begins to rise, Benji takes his leave. The next stop is the library. When he isn’t reading Dan Brown he’s reading something from its wonderful shelves. On the weekends he covers for Elissa who’s six months pregnant and on mandatory bed rest. On Wednesdays, like today, he returns whatever he borrowed and takes out a new book. 

For a while he trails the shelves, there’s never really anything new to see but it’s relaxing. He picks up old computer science textbooks and thumbs through them, finds the old graffitied copy of Jane Eyre that props up a chair leg in the Non-Fiction section to check if anyone else has added their name to the front page. ‘BD found this on 12.04.18’ is scrawled in the bottom left corner in familiar handwriting. He settles on another Ian M. Banks book and takes it to the front desk, smiling politely at the volunteer librarian.

He visits Mrs. Lancy in the antique shop, brings her a scone from the café and asks after old man Lancy (even she refers to him that way, everyone does). She asks him to help her move some of the furniture around since her back is playing up- she’s old enough to call Samuel ‘young man’ with the sternness of a mother. Maybe that’s why Samuel is so fond of her.

When he leaves the shop it’s busier outside, cold sunlight high in the sky. Puddles linger on the pavement that passers-by dodge, and children try to skip through, tugged away by their parent. Samuel weaves amongst them, utterly one of the crowd. Its still an unnerving feeling, fighting the urge to check over his shoulder.

The supermarket is packed too, but its easier to dodge around the trolls with his basket in one arm. Samuel buys fresh fruit and ingredients for dinner for the next few days. Since moving here, he can finally take the time to prepare meals in the evening. At first there were many, many failed attempts that ended in smoke alarms and tragic charred remains in the bin. Now, even Mrs. Lancy approves of his culinary efforts. On Fridays, he will cook something to take over to her and old man Lancy so Mrs. Lancy can take a break. Old man Lancy usually grunts his approval from the armchair, but Samuel knows it’s high praise.

When he returns home, it’s the afternoon. At this time of year, the light is already dimming, casting a sleepy atmosphere over the house. Samuel reads the new book by the fire for a while before cooking dinner. He eats at the counter, watching something light-hearted on his laptop.

Even though it’s early, he turns in. Maybe it’s a sign of his age, maybe it’s also from years of not enough sleep; his body is finally catching up on all of it he’s missed and, since the nightmares have faded, he can drift off unafraid.

He’ll check his phone before putting it on charge, then check the one in the draw too just in case. There’s never anything on it and he gets into bed clear-headed.

It’s a hard won, but established routine. Unbroken for years now, except by colds or snow or holidays. Samuel has constructed a world he is very proud of and content within. Perhaps it is all built on lies, fake names and stories, but it is his. His alone. Alone.

If some nights he wakes with long unspoken names on the tip of his tongue, and his own ringing through his skull? It is long forgotten by morning.

1.

Benji groans as his alarm beeps gently from the bedside table. Without leaving the warmth of his duvet, he slaps the device and shuts of the cruel noise. For a moment he closes his eyes, head heavy on his pillow and limbs loose with sleep. He tries to remember his dream, there had been something about it that was strange, but he can’t recall what. With a sigh he sits up and cracks his back.

Pulling back the duvet is a second wake-up call by the icy chill on mornings in Perth at this time of year. One would have thought he would be used to it by now but winter still manages to creep up on him before he remembers to take the winter coats from the loft. Hurriedly Benji adds a jumper over his shirt as he gets dressed- it’s getting cold faster this year or maybe he’s feeling it more, age catching up to him in the form of grey hairs and thin skin. He pads downstairs, through the living room, past the unconscious body on his soft, to the kitchen. Yawning, he fills the kettle and sets it to boil while he finds his socks on the radiator. One has dropped onto the floor in the night and he bends to pick it up, then freezes.

There’s a body on his sofa.

He pings up straight and looks back into the living room, heart racing. A sense of dread settles in his stomach like concrete. Too many other emotions churn among the thick sludge of it as Benji steps toward the doorway. There’s no mistaking it though.

Ethan Hunt lays asleep on his sofa, snoring softly. He lays on his stomach, arms tucked beneath the cushion under his head. Dirty boots dangle off the edge of the sofa, but it has saved it from nothing since the rest of his clothes appear just as filthy. Walking forward carefully, Ethan realises Ethan’s face isn’t much better; bruises and cut. There are flecks of grey in his week-old stubble and roots of his greasy hair. Caught up in his observations, Benji doesn’t notice the movement until he feels the cold barrel of the gun against his belly. To surprise his heart beat remains steady. He blinks and meets Ethan’s half opened eyes, peering up at him.

“Good morning to you to,” he says coolly. The gun falls away and Ethan smiles, turning his head to look at Benji properly.

“Benji,” he replies warmly, as if he hadn’t just been pointing a gun at him. Something lurches painfully inside Benji, hit hard by the rush of memories and old feelings. All from one smile, and one name he hasn’t heard out loud in six years. Anger burns brightly in the pit of him at the realisation Ethan still has this hold over him after all this time, after everything that happened.

He steps back. “That’s not my name.”

Without waiting for a reply he turns and goes back to the kitchen. Now his heart is truly pounding, but there’s a calmness underneath it, developed from years in the field where keeping a level head meant keeping yourself alive. The water in the kettle had cooled in the interim so he switches it on again and leans against the counter, staring out of the window. He counts his breathes, ignoring the movement in the living room. Ethan comes in slowly, like a cautious stray cat. He stays at the other end of the counter, hip leaning against it and somehow infuriating Benji more.

“Tea?” He offers without looking his way as he finds cups and teabags.

“Coffee would be great.”

There’s a bag in the cupboard next to him for guests, but Benji isn’t feeling accommodating. “I don’t drink coffee anymore. Tea?”

“Sure, Benji.”

The kettle clicks. Benji picks it up and pours water into two mugs. “I told you that’s not my name. It’s Samuel.”

“You don’t look like a Samuel.” There’s a crack as the mug in Benji’s hand fractures under his white knuckled grip. Hot water spills over his fingers and the counter, but he barely feels it. He hears Ethan’s breath catch. “Ben-“

“Stop it! Just… stop it,” Benji hisses. He goes to the sink and shoves his hand under cold water, soothing the reddened skin. It gives him something to focus on, muting the chaotic thoughts in his head.

“I’m sorry. Samuel, I’m sorry.”

For the first time in years the name sounds foreign, utterly unfamiliar. Benji feels sick and stares into the drain. When he turns around Ethan is carefully gathering the broken pieces. Some of the white china is stained watery red and Benji realises he cut his palm.

“Oh,” he sighs. Ethan looks up and sees the pool of blood forming in Benji’s cupped hand.

He reaches out, “let me-“ But Benji lurches his hand out of the way.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea do you?”

For the first time, Ethan’s mask falls. His gaze turns down and his hand quickly returns to his side. Benji is frozen for a moment before quickly leaving the room. He goes upstairs to the bathroom and finds his dusty first aid it. Stalling for as long as possible, he takes extra care cleaning the cut and wrapping it in a bandage. He sits heavily on the toilet lip, hands on his knees and breathing steadily. His hand throbs as he tightens his grip but it’s grounding.

When he returns downstairs, the kitchen is empty. A cup of tea sits waiting on the tidied surface and the sofa shows no sign of being slept on. Benji sighs heavily, ignoring the niggle of disappointment. He also ignores the fact the tea is made just how he likes it.

-

The house isn't very big but it isn't small. Outside the bricks are exposed and the slate roof has moss growing on it. When it rains the gutters overflow from the moss falling in and blocking the drain, and because of the big oak leaves that fall from the tree in the front garden whos branches droop over the roof. Its great height and arcing branches cast shadows in the living room through the latch window, as the day gets later they reach into the depths of the house. There's a fireplace to keep them at bay, though. Nothing ornate decorates it, the surrounding simple stone blackened as the hearth within it. The sofa beside it looks well used, saggy cushions collected on it and throws over the arm. When the evening brings with it the cold, the hearth is lit and the blankets unfurled, and the house suddenly becomes a beacon of warmth. 

An ARGA takes up most of the kitchen, large and green and perfect for providing fresh bread and dinner. The small two person table against the opposite wall usually gets dragged right in front of it to eat at, socked feet and curled up cat pressed against its cast iron heat. The bowl of cat food (indulgent sardine's every other day) sits by the backdoor. In the summer when it's just a little warmer its propped open with a big stone lugged home from a hike on the coast.

The bedroom upstairs looks into that back garden, a square patch of grass with a tiny shed against the fence. The big latch window frosts up inside and out, the sealing thinner now, but thick curtains keep the cold at bay. Beside the bed a portable heater is tucked next to the beside table. One of the previous owners installed heating, radiators, but they stopped working months ago. Winter is approaching, they should be fixed.

The only bathroom is an en suite to the bedroom with big bathtub, its foot pointed to another back-garden facing window. Beneath it the view is only mown grass and the stack of plant-pots left next to peeling white garden furniture; unassuming. It's a home. Strangely baron of identity but lived in nonetheless. By old books, disgruntled cat and a collection of house plants.

-

Nightmares plagued Benji in the first few weeks of retirement, more so than they ever had when he was in the field. They were guilt ridden nightmares. The world coming apart, innocents dying, friends he abandoned dying.  
Retiring meant a new identity and new location, for his own safety- protocol for all field agents. He said his goodbye to those he loved and didn’t say it others- then became Samuel Shepperd.

Of course, there are loopholes to be exploited. He sees his sister still every few months, exchanges letters with her and a few others. It had been unbearable at first, riddled with guilt and terror. He didn’t read the news for weeks, the read it every day and night for months.

Eventually, though, the dreams slowly changed and the shadowy monsters receded into the dark until Benji forgot most of them… made himself forget them. When the letters would come, they would conjure the nightmares back for a few sleeps; but it was worth it catch a glimpse of his old life. Whispers on the wind.

-

It isn’t a post day but Benji wakes from a nightmare with a start, gasping into his pillow as he eyes fly open to daylight. He squints over his shoulder and the window; he hadn’t closed his curtains.

Slowly the nightmare fades and Benji sits up, cursing the cold and wrapping the duvet around him. He stretches across the bed and grabs his jumper and slippers, putting them on beneath the covers. This morning he aches down to the bone and shivers, all the heat having seeped from the room through the open curtains. When he checks his phone it's dead and he curses again. All day yesterday he had been so turned around by the encounter, he’d been late everywhere and met by concerned looks. He must have forgotten to put his phone on charge too. 

When the shaking subsides, Benji slips out of bed and takes the stairs carefully, pausing on the landing and peering into the living room. As expected- and dreaded and anticipated and- Ethan lays on his sofa once more. This time he is tucked into the back cushions, curled up against them with his face mushed into them. Benji watches him for a moment, assessing the anxiety levels within himself. To his surprise, he feels no spike in his pulse and no panic seizing his heart. It’s almost disappointing how easily his body acclimates to Ethan’s presence even after all this time. No, it infuriates him.

So, Benji steels himself an goes into the kitchen breezily as if it is any other morning. He puts on the kettle and pulls out eggs and bread from the cupboards. It takes an unusual amount of time for Ethan to stir, but when he does the room smells of scrambling eggs and toasting bread. Ethan twists around where he lays, nose guided by the smell and Benji almost smiles. Almost. There’s dried blood under Ethan’s nose, and knuckles. The toast pops and they both flinch.

Benji clears his throat. “Butter that will you.”

Silently, Ethan stands and finds the butter in the fridge without asking. They stand an arms width apart, the closest they’ve been in years. Ignoring the prickling under his skin, Benji brushes by him and tips the eggs into two heaps on each plate. Ethan slides the toast on next to them and carries both plates to the little table and chairs in the corner.

Their knees touch as they sit and Benji jerks away, Ethan’s face stays carefully blank. That is until he starts eating, wolfing down the food in a half wild frenzy. He hunches over it like he’s afraid it might be taken from him any minute. Benji watches him as he eats his half more slowly. He wonders what happened in their years apart and wonders, not for the first time, why Ethan is here.

But instead he simply asks. “What happened to your nose?” Ethan looks up quizzically. “There’s-“ Benji waves his fork under his own nose. “Bit of blood. There.” Ethan touches his upper lip and looks at the dry blood that comes away on his finger blankly.

“Oh. Must’ve happened in the night.”

“And the bruises? Just… Happened in the night did they?” Ethan looks at him soft and Benji wants to slap him, get some kind of reaction.

“These eggs are great,” Ethan says and bends over them, scooping more into his mouth. Benji sighs and decides it is best not to care (pretend not to, anyway). They eat quietly and Benji takes out his phone. Its still out of battery but he pretends to check it anyway. Ethan glances at it, then him, but Benji ignores him until he hears a quiet ‘ah’.

Red speckles the white china plate and Ethan drops his fork, brings his hand up to his leaking nose.

“Christ,” Benji grumbles. “Come on.” He leads Ethan upstairs to the bathroom.

Grabbing a roll of toilet paper, he punches a handful up and wets it under the tap. Ethan tilts his head up a little and moves his hand aside to let Benji wipe away the excess on his lips. He avoids his eyes the whole time, afraid of what he might see in them. This close (still an arms width) he can see faded bruises and healing cuts. It’s like his skin his just made of layers of injuries. When his face is clean, Benji gets more paper and presses it into Ethan’s hand, guiding up to his nose.

“I was in prison.”

Benji pauses at the sink, pink tissue in one hand.

“Like in Serbia?”

“Yeah, but… They left me there.” Benji turns and this time it is Ethan avoiding his gaze.

“What?”

“The mission took a few months. Then nothing. No- no contact, no signal, noth-ing just…. Silence. I waited and waited. I tried to get messages out, but no one… there was no one,” Ethan closes his eyes, adjusting the tissue a little. “I waited then I couldn’t wait anymore. I escaped, barely-“ A smile twitches his rubbed raw lips. “And I found some old contacts. They said I was burned. The Imf needed a- a scape goat for a mission that went wrong and caused an international incident. My record… It was easy.”

“Jesus,” Benji breaths.

“Yeah. I was expendable. You were right. I’ve always been…” Ethan sighs and lowers his head, moving the tissue away and sniffing. The flow has stopped. “I’m sorry, Ben- Samuel, I didn’t know where else-“

“Benji.” His heart stops. Finally, their eyes meet; Ethan’s shiny with tears and Ben-ji’s stinging with the same. He hugs his arms to his chest to stop himself from hugging Ethan.

“What?”

“You can call me Benji.”

“Okay,” Ethan swallows. “Benji.”

“Just… Only around the house,” Benji adds as he quickly washes his hands. “Everyone here knows me as- as Samuel.” He doesn’t check over his shoulder to see if Ethan nods as he leaves the bathroom. When he closes the bedroom door he lets his breath out in a rush, pressing a hand over his racing heart. Why did he say that? Why did he say that? He groans and rubs his hands over his face. It's past his usual time to leave the house again and he has to buy ingredients for a meatloaf to take to the Lancy's.

He dresses hurriedly with the addition of a scarf and gloves. Downstairs is empty, but Ethan's boots are still next to the sofa. Peering around, he doesn't see him in the garden then there's the familiar clunk of the boiler coming to life.

"Don't use all the hot water!" Benji yells toward the ceiling before leaving the house with a huff- so much for manners.

-

Goodbyes can, in fact, be easy. However, there are different types of goodbyes. There's the cheerful farewell cast over your shoulder to your friends as you walk home from school, knowing you will see them again tomorrow morning. The softer goodbyes between lovers that aren't quite goodbyes because he'll reach for his phone the minute they get on the bus and text them 'i miss u'. For the rest of the night and into the morning they'll talk, their goodbye is merely a formality. 

Then there are the final goodbyes. The one you know, they know, will be the last you say to each other, even if the possibility of forever is too hard to comprehend. But it will be forever. Those words you have to swallow around and drag from the back of your throat, lined with held back tears or resignation. The forever goodbye clings to us even after it's said- should I have said more? Should I have hugged them? Kissed them? Hit them and cried and told them how I really feel. Those goodbyes do not have closure, they are words left hanging in the air with an incomplete sentence behind them and no punctuation ahead.

But then there are the forever goodbyes... That aren't forever, and aren't they the worst of all?

-

The week goes on like this: Ethan flits in and out of Benji's presence. There in the morning, slumped on the sofa and still looking ragged. Once Benji starts making breakfast he stirs and joins him, usually making the tea or toasting bread. They still don't talk much, every time Benji looks at him he sees how different Ethan is and it aches. He has questions building up in a suffocating pile at the back of his throat. The idea of asking them is... daunting.

Each morning he walks down stairs with the small fear that Ethan won't be there. He'll have finally left and Benji will be alone again. But each morning he's there, curled in on himself in exhausted sleep. It reminds Benji of when he first left, all the sleeping he did.

After breakfast, Benji leaves the house without saying goodbye (it would feel too normal). Usually when he goes, Ethan is on the sofa with a book or cleaning up in the dishes, and by the time he comes back, he's gone. Where he goes, Benji has no clue and it adds another to the stack of questions to the pile. He tries to maintain his routine, but the people he sees in town have noticed. When he goes to the cafe for his morning coffee Seanad asks if he's catching a cold, and old man Lancy looks unhappily at him when he beats Benji twice at chess.

The forecast announces a new weather front coming in over Scotland. Benji leaves a blanket on the arm of the sofa and the next morning he finds Ethan almost entirely hidden beneath it. After that, he leaves his spare coat and scarf and a jumper. Ethan wears them and very quietly says 'thank you, Benji' at breakfast, but that could've been for frying his egg over easy how he likes it. Is this progress? Or regression? Does he want either to happen? He has been Samuel for years and suddenly, he is Benji again, and it's like the second coat of paint has been stripped away

It is during his shift at the library when things change again.

There's not heating in the library, other than portable radiators dotted among the aisles. There is also one under the desk where Benji stands, warming up his toes as he sorts returns. It's quiet, more so than a library usually is, the chill keeping people away. Benji prefers it like this, it gives him time to think and work at a leisurely place.

The stack of sci-fi novels in his hand wobbles as he walks up the stairs. The smaller book categories are on the second floor, but they couldn't afford a second trolley so everything has to be carried. At times like this, Benji seriously considers just buying them one. It's chillier up here with less heaters and a couple of loose windows. They rattle ominously in their frames, a soft whistle ringing through the stacks.

Always a little spooked by the atmosphere, Benji hums to himself for reassurance as he shelves the first lot. The stack shrinks to just above his chin and it teeters as he picks up the next volume of The Wasp Factory. When he reaches up to the shelf 'Ba' rests on, the stack in his arms starts to fall. As the next books slips off it's caught mid-air- by Ethan. His other hand steadies the toppling load.

"Oh my- Christ," Benji gasps. "What are you- where did you come from?"

"I was looking for a book to read," Ethan replies, checking the cover of the one he had caught.

"Well you... came to the right place," Benji mutters as he takes it from him and puts it on the shelf randomly. He moves on to the next aisle, Ethan on his heels.

"Do you work here?"

"Yes, I mean no. I'm covering for someone," Benji answers, shelving more books a little harder than necessary.

"So you volunteer?"

He shrugs. "They don't charge me overdue fees so."

"That's nice of them."

Benji puts down the last copy of Triffids. "What are you doing?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Suddenly acting like this is normal. Like you being here is normal."

"Do you want me to go?"

"No- it- I." Benji groans in frustration and scrubs a hand over his face. "Just stop pretending."

"Pretending what?" Benji glares at Ethan who stands with his arms firmly crossed, looking determined like he knows he's being deliberately obtuse.

"Like what happened back then didn't happen like, like-"

"Do you want me to say sorry? Or do you want me to be angry with you?"

Benji shelves the last book and grips the shelf hard. "Wh-what?"

"It'd be easier wouldn't it? For me to be angry too?"

"I," he swallows. "I told you I was leaving, I don't have anything to feel guilty about."

"I know that, but do you?"

He shoves Ethan. It's a gut-reaction, his inner toddler coming out. It's just Ethan is completely right and he hates it, hates being read like an open back when they should be strangers. The look of surprise Ethan has as he goes staggering back would be funny if Benji wasn't so upset.

"You don't know anything about me anymore, Ethan, you lost that right the minute you walked out of my door." Ethan's back to him, hand on the doorknob. Gaze cast down, away from Benji, as he closes it behind him. Benji sinking onto the sofa, tears spilling over, his most dreaded expectations met. He can see Ethan remembering it too, a glimmer of regret on his face.

"I came back," Ethan murmurs and Benji's heart stops. "That night, before you left. I came to the house and everything was gone. I was going to-"

"Why would say that," Benji interjects. "Why would you... Are you trying to, what? Hurt me more? Is that why you came?"

"I'm trying to tell you you were right," Ethan snaps, voice raised for the first time. "I should've... there is so much, Benji, so much I wish I could take back from that day. Everything I did... I should've said goodbye."

Benji shuts his eyes, realising. "You still wouldn't have come."

"Benji..." Ethan's tone is so gentle it sounds too much like pity.

"Stop, don't say whatever you're about to say. Go." He says it all to the floor between them. There's a beat, then the sound of Ethan's boots recede. Benji waits until he hears the echo of the entrance doors fall shut before, leanings on the shelf with both hands to breath through the sick feeling cloying at his throat. 

Suddenly he realises what he said. Go. He told Ethan to leave. His heart beat races frantically and he straightens. All he had meant was leave the library but what if... He launches himself out of the aisle, running down the corridor and taking the steps three at a time. He skids to the doors and almost falls through them, stag-gering onto the pavement.

Wind and spitting rain slap him in the face. He wraps his cardigan around himself and paces frantically one way, then the other. Yet, Ethan is nowhere to be found. The anxiety attack claws at his lungs. Benji covers his mouth and closes his eyes, bending almost in two as he tries to breath.

-

They had a son. Both were younger then. Mairi loved the child the moment they put him in their arms; a wriggling, screaming, red faced little boy. He was perfect. Fionnlagh cried too, silent tears ran down his face as he looked at his son and wife and he hid them in her sweat soaked neck, hand covering hers on the back of the baby's head. 

They lost their son. Older but still much to young. No parent should bury their child. Mairi's blonde hair had streaks of brown in it that turned grey after. Fionnlagh used to walk with him around the town through the forests and hills, now he walked alone and so much further. In the evening she held his hand as they watched the news after dinner as they always did. He tapped odd rhythms onto her knuckles, she always searches for a pattern in them but there never is. There's something comforting in that.

Slowly they become part of the antiques they sell, ancient and treated carefully but kindly. She remembers everything, he starts to forget some things; where the remote is, what the date is, who... 

But they lost a son and neither of them forget that. 

-

The sofa is empty. Benji stands on the bottom step, fists clutching the sleeve of his jumper around his cold fists. He feels cold all over. All night he had woken over and over, thinking he heard the door open or window slide. When he woke next, he had slept through two alarms and scrambled up to hurry downstairs like a kid at Christmas. But the room was empty, and bigger than usual. He sinks on the step behind him, hugging his stomach, any hunger overridden by queasiness. Eventually, he stands and goes upstairs to get dressed.

Everywhere he goes is muted. He can't hear past his own blood pounding in his ears.

He rubs his eyes as he stares at the shelf of vegetables. He can hear Ethan's voice telling him he came back, telling him he was right. A voice whispers at the back of his mind, he came to you. Ethan had sort him out, of all people. Chips down, he chose Benji. And he's free. Benji's pulse jumps. Ethan wasn't going back. He was free and Benji pushed- literally shoved- him away... He moves aside for another customer, muttering an apology and grabbing the nearest net of onions.

Mrs. Lancy had looked him over with concern when he entered the antique shop, asked what was wrong. What was he supposed to tell her? He'd brushed it off- the cold, his bad back, etc.- and she'd looked sceptical. On the way out she had been adamant he didn't need to cook them dinner tonight, but Benji was already clinging to the last of his sanity and insisted. He needed something normal, needed for it not to all fly out the window just because of Ethan.

When he gets back to the house, there's an odd light in the living room window. Benji has a very real moment of 'did I leave the oven on?' As he frantically searches for his keys. He opens the door and freezes on its stoop.

As he stands there, Ethan looks up from the book he is reading and sits up from his reclined position on the sofa. There's a fire in the hearth that illuminates him with a warmth that reminds Benji of Ethan from before, even the smile he gives Benji feels like an echo. He averts his eyes, hiding his fluster, and drops his keys into the dish by the door. Ethan says nothing as Benji puts the bag of ingredients of the kitchen table, but he can feel him watching.

"So where did you sleep last night?" He asks while he shucks his coat and begins decanting the necessary ingredients. It had been eating away at him all day- he didn't want to care and hoped his tone reflected that, he was just curious.

"I found a place." 'A place', Benji knows, according to Ethan could be anything from a park bench to a luxury hotel suite. Benji stops sorting the minced beef, leaning on the counter for a minute. Once he's gathered his thoughts, he turns to Ethan who has sat up, a little more alert.

"Right. Well. You can stay here tonight. You seem well acquainted with the sofa and I'll be out late, anyway- I'm cooking for the Lancy's."

It looks like Ethan is trying desperately not to smile or relax, vibrating with restraint. "I think we're becoming great friends. Thank you, Benji." The way he adds his name to every sentence... Benji can't decide if he wants him to stop or say it again and again. Perhaps it is a mantra for both of them.

"I just... I have one more question. For now."

Ethan shifts a little, thumbing the page of the book in his lap. "Okay."

"Is... Are they going to come for you? The Imf or anyone else..." Benji rubs his hands together nervously. "Do we need to get ready?" He thinks of the container in the attic, dusty and tucked in the shadows like its tucked in the dark corner of his mind. A pre-caution.

"No. No, Benji, I'd never lead them to you," Ethan answers softly, standing at the same time. He looks like he wants to come closer but stays rooted there. The last two times he came near Benji, he got flinched away from and shoved- Benji can't blame him, and he hates it. "My body will turn up in the Ivdel River in a few days. The dental records will match and- and that'll be it."

Ethan looks so lost, Benji closes his eyes and rubs his temple where a headache is forming. "Okay. Good."

"I'd never put you in danger, Benji, believe me." There are muted footsteps and Benji opens his eyes to Ethan standing in front of him. Sincerity bleeds from his eyes like a self-inflicted wound and pours over Benji. He's radiating warmth from being next to the blazing hearth. Although his tan has faded he still seems carved straight from sunlight. He can't take his eyes of the mostly faded bruise under Ethan's eye. It feels like an out of body experience, Benji's hand moving of its own accord. Delicately he touches it, brushing over the marred skin. Ethan only twitches, and after a moment his eyelids flutter closed.

When was the last time someone touched Ethan without violent intent? Locked up and abandoned for far longer than Benji wants to think about. He brushes his fin-gers further across Ethan's cheek and lets his palm lay flat against his jaw. Almost immediately, Ethan leans into it like cat being petted, but his brow furrows almost like it's painful. Benji feels his heart start to race again as his fingers drag over the curve of his ear into his hair. There are indeed grey hairs at his temple. Finally, Benji thinks with a sad tilt of his lips, the man shows signs of age.

"I missed you," Benji confesses in a rush.

Eyes closed still, Ethan's resolve seems to break and his face crumples. Before Benji can fully see his anguish, Ethan lurches forward and hugs him. Benji staggers, the backs of his thighs barging into the table behind him and making it rattle. He recovers quickly and wraps his arms around Ethan's waist. Benji hasn't hugged anyone in ages (other than the polite one armed embrace or two) and now he doesn't want to let go. the last remnants of his anger snap like a worn down elastic band and he holds Ethan closer still. He feels Ethan press his face into Benji's shoulder and Benji closes his eyes, leaning his cheek against Ethan's soft hair.

He never did get the 'I miss you too', but this is so much better.


End file.
